


Every Day

by building_a_desert



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence after 4x8, Cuddling & Snuggling, Father/Son Incest, Fluff and Angst, Freeform, Frottage, Incest, M/M, Underage Masturbation, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-03
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-01-18 00:50:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1408870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/building_a_desert/pseuds/building_a_desert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s become all too easy to forget the roles they were meant to fill for each other as their selective parts tend to become blurred, out of focus. The role of “father” isn’t gentle guidance anymore; it’s resolute, dedicated protection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lacking

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first fic of the fandom, and what a choice pairing I decided to write about. We definitely need more Grimecest on here, and I figured a WIP might help ease our little ship along. 
> 
> Nothing explicit yet, probably no actual sex for some time, though pleeenty of UST on the way. <3 And to avoid confusion, Daryl and Michonne are absent as well, so my headcanon decided they're both with Beth. idek I just really like the Grimes boys isolated with no one but each other for comfort.
> 
> Shameless plugging here, but I just started a tumblr account more specifically catered towards fics and other jizz jazz.  
> follow me at humdrum-star.tumblr.com/ <3 thanks!
> 
> Unbeta'd, so any and all mistakes are my own, and spoilers up to 4x16.

\-------------------------------------------

               The boy is sin.  
 

               Pure, unadulterated temptation.

 

               Too often Rick finds his eyes lingering on the dip of his son’s collar, a brief glimpse to the small of his back thanks to an perfectly timed shift in movement before a flicker of cloth and the teen's shirt falls back into place. A full-body stretch, while perfectly unremarkable to anyone else, feels like a death sentence to the man when he lets himself indulge in the curve of Carl’s spine, the slender build that tenses for just a moment -- before the quick release, leaving the boy more lax than before and damned if Rick can’t just tear his eyes away.

 

               He knows his son is fourteen years-old; he also knows that in this world, age isn’t subjective. Do or die, kill or be killed, survival of the fittest. These key elements uphold the almost predictable chaos that natural selection entails. What _is_ subjective is that which drives anyone to survive. Without a flicker of hesitation, Rick has committed himself to Carl as his driving force, his to protect and shield from anything, any _one_ that might constitute a threat. For all intents and purposes, the boy is his reason just to be.

 

               In return, Carl provides a basic comfort, a fundamental component of his life that just by _existing_ gives Rick a sense of pride. After the living hell they’ve undergone, after the monumental loss of their old lives and everyone associated with it, the mere fact that his son continues to survive should be enough.

 

               But something after the death of his wife triggered a response in Rick to _guarantee_ the safety of his child, no matter what it cost. The biological compulsion is there, stronger now than ever, to preserve his offspring. But something deeper has idled just under the surface, snippets of thoughts leaving the man guilty and confused for some time now. He’s tried distancing himself, something that wasn’t exactly difficult as a great deal of their relationship has been more in what’s left unspoken.

 

               The dilemma of helping to guide Carl into a well-rounded human being, combined with stunted, repressed conversations all rolled up into the attack on the Prison has resulted in redirected blame and resentment. Rick regrets letting the poison build up in his son for so long, ignoring the warning signs and allowing the boy’s wounds to fester while he lost sight of himself.

 

               Never again will the man let himself put anything before Carl. Never again will he fail to defend the life and safety of his son. And though it’s not a memory he ever looks back on in reverence, there’s always a sort of grim satisfaction in the knowledge he succeeded in saving Carl from animals that dared touch him. The guilt is still there though – Rick’s actions, however justified for his own survival, led to the very near and very _real_ violation of his son before his eyes. 

 

               He won’t soon forget the sounds the boy made. Weak cries knocked from his body mixed with horrified gasps for air that just wouldn’t come, cries for his father for _help him_ while the man himself hesitated, caught in the grips of fight or flight while systematically trying to reason with men that just wouldn’t have it.

 

               He saw red for quite a while after that, though he knows the act of savagery is buried somewhere in his subconscious. All that mattered at that moment forward was ripping each filthy beast apart. There was no difference now, nothing differentiating these men from the Walkers. All Rick’s mind registered was a threat to his son and there was no going back after that.

 

               He can recall a hail of bullets, of the brief sting of being shot once in the shoulder and again in the thigh while adrenaline numbed his body. To _become_ the predator and turn the tables was the advantage he needed and Rick’s aware of muscle memory taking over to administer several shots of his own to the others standing shell shocked.

 

               But Rick can most vividly recall the feeling, more than the sight, of the initial stab, wrenching the hilt of the knife in an upward motion towards the sternum, the screams erupting from the man’s throat, his rotund body, all reminiscent of the slaughter of pigs. Rick recalls thrusting the knife into the animal over and over and over and over, wanting it to feel violated, as though its body wasn’t its to control anymore. Wanting this _thing_ to feel powerless.

 

               In the aftermath, heedless of the blood and gore caked to his face and entire upper body, Rick engulfed his son in his arms, gently rocking the young teen. He can remember cupping one hand around the back of the boy’s head, the other making restless sweeps and caresses along his back. Carl himself only gripped tightly to his father’s shirt, not saying a word, as lips pressed kisses to his temples and whispers rained frantically down on his ears.

               

               “You’re safe now; they’re gone.”

 

               "I've got you now, sweetheart.”

 

               “I’ll _always_ protect you, I _promise_.”

 

               “Shhh. Shhh. Hush now.”

 

               “I’ll kill _anyone_ that touches you.”

 

                It’s an ordeal that’s shaped their dynamic. Since then, Carl seems to be more cautious. He heeds his father more often, doesn’t venture ahead with little regard for Rick’s protective instincts. The respect that he held for Rick seems to have made a reappearance, as if the point needed to be driven home that his dad would do absolutely _anything_ to keep him safe. Gone now is the unstable leader playing farmer and in his place stands a man at peace with the animal inside his bones.

 

                It’s become all too easy to become complacent in one setting with one person. It’s become all too easy to forget the roles they were meant to fill for each other as their selective parts tend to become blurred, out of focus. The role of “father” isn’t gentle guidance anymore; it’s resolute, dedicated protection.

 

              The archetype Carl used to fulfill, that of the wayward son eager to prove his independence, has been muted. He displays more attentive behaviour, especially towards his father. He keeps the older man in check, ensures he doesn't sway too far one way or another. Carl is Rick's centre, his compass. He’s all that’s good and right in the world, the only thing Rick can look at and say with certainty that he’s doing _one thing_ right. He knows as long as he has his son to guard, he has a reason to continue. He’s got something under control in this messed up world as long as the boy stays by his side, peaceful and safe.

 

               Rick just wishes it was _enough._


	2. Comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in two days~ Can't guarantee it'll be that regular forever, but my muse is good. 
> 
> Cuddling and affection and UST GALORE <3 
> 
> Follow me on tumblr at humdrum-star.tumblr.com
> 
> Unbeta'd, any and all mistakes are my own. Enjoy!
> 
> \-------------------------------

               They were on the road again, had been for the last two days. They took shelter where they could find it, avoiding all big cities and instead focusing on suburban areas. They never knew who or what else might be staying just down the street, but it was a safer gamble then being massively outnumbered in Atlanta again.

 

               Rick made it a point to walk in step with Carl while they travelled, one hand on his holster, the other resting on the boy’s shoulder or back. All he had were his own eyes and most times that just wasn’t enough. He needed to be ready for any inevitability, and close physical proximity was essential for the safety of his child.

 

               “Where do you think we’re heading?” Carl asked, breaking the comfortably tense silence.

 

               “I know we’re headin’ North,” he replied, hand giving Carl’s shoulder a small squeeze, thumb inadvertently making a soft caressing motion at the junction of his son’s neck and shoulder, “’S far as specifics go, we’re still in Georgia, though I couldn’t tell ya where.” He paused to glance around.

 

               “Haven’t seen any signs for a bit now, but - ” He broke off as they rounded a corner in the street only to be confronted by a mildly blood spattered sign welcoming them to “Blue Ridge.”

 

               “Well,” Rick gave an exhale that might’ve been a chuckle, “There ya go. S’pose that answers your question for now.”

              

               ---------------------

 

               Fortunately, the duo was met with nothing but a ghost town. Perhaps it had evacuated before, maybe there just wasn’t anything or anyone worth eating. Rick only hopes to find a house with a pantry, as they ran out of food just this morning and he can see the fatigue creeping over his son’s concentration.

 

               They walked cautiously, both weapons drawn with Carl a step behind Rick as per usual. Though he could always sense the argument just under the surface, Rick’s logic was sound: Carl still had several inches to grow, and that was a disadvantage particularly damning when all threats are at least a head taller. To keep Carl safe, Rick always goes first.

 

               “Seems totally deserted,” the boy muttered, careful not to disturb the uneasy peace. Too many times have they been led astray by dubious silences.

 

               “ ‘Seems’ bein’ the key word,” Rick replied, chancing a glance towards his son’s face. They locked eyes for a moment, before a sudden movement caught his attention. One walker lay on the ground, both legs blown off or eaten long ago, fingers bloodied nubs from dragging its own weight.

 

               It didn’t seem to see them, but barely seemed to be moving anyway. The only sign of animation were its telltale moans, but even those seemed feeble, strained. Odds are its body had broken down to such an extent it couldn’t bite them if it tried. For the first time in a while, Rick was vaguely reminded of a wounded, dying animal when presented with a Walker.

 

               Not wanting to waste any more time or energy, the man quickly slipped an arm around his son’s torso and shepherded him along into the nearest house with a functioning door. Peeking in cautiously, gun first, Rick made a quick, sharp whistle, virtually indistinguishable from a bird, and waited on bated breath for any sounds or signs of movement.

 

               Nothing.

 

               Holding his gun tightly in both hands, Rick indicated with a tilt of his head for Carl to follow his lead.

 

               It took a comfortingly short amount of time to clear out the house, finding only an elderly couple’s inanimate corpses in the master bedroom; it was no doubt a double suicide. Everything else seemed to be virtually untouched. They made quick work of boarding up and covering any windows, securing all doors, and searching the kitchen. Many nonperishables remained, including many canned goods, much to their satisfaction.

 

               Having found a handful of tea lights and a box of matches, Carl lit one, keeping it down low away from the windows and partially concealed by furniture. There was a set of unspoken rules they had down to a T. Vying for too many creature comforts always resulted in disaster, as there can very well be too much of a good thing.

 

               The pair staked out the living room, settling together on the floor, hunched forward towards their meager lighting, and ate in companionable silence. There really wasn’t much left to say anyway.

 

               --------

 

               “Dad?”

 

               A beat, quick blink, a return to awareness.

 

               “Hm?”

 

               Rick felt heat rise up the back of his neck followed by an involuntary swallow. Carl had stopped, one arm out of the sleeve of his flannel shirt before noticing his father’s heavy gaze. A pause. The boy’s brow furrowed, doing nothing to mar the fine porcelain of the rest of his face.

 

               “Is - something wrong?”

 

               The older man blanked, mind racing for a split second to come up with a reason, an excuse, to explain his avid attention towards his son’s exposed torso. The boy was changing shirts; he had no choice unless he wanted to sleep in dried Walker blood, again. Nothing noteworthy for any normal father, but Rick had given up the illusion of normalcy long ago.

 

               “No. Nothin’.”

 

               Carl waited another moment, clearly skeptical, but didn’t reply. He pulled his other arm free and tossed the ruined garment to a far corner of the room before slipping a similar button-up shirt over his shoulders, leaving a wide gap of nothing but smooth skin exposed along his front.

 

               The juxtaposition of silken ivory beneath a rough cotton pattern only seemed more indecent. Rick imagined, not for the first time, what his lips would feel like pressed to the boy’s skin, trailing a path of kisses down his neck, tasting nothing but Carl’s essence. Salty and musky, but _familiar_. Rick imagined his son tasted like home.

 

               Realizing he’d been staring and, with a quick glance, realizing he’d been _caught_ staring, Rick quickly backpedaled. Carl raised his eyebrows while earthen locks swept over his forehead gently, head tilted.

 

               “Dad.”

 

               It would make sense that Carl inherited his shrewd instincts. Though it feels like a previous life, Rick’s skills as a sheriff’s deputy didn’t diminish in the new one. And now it seems both a blessing and curse that his son should exercise the same critical thinking; it’s necessary for survival in this world, but incredibly inconvenient at the moment.

 

               He needed to reply, needed to think of _something_ because now it was obvious it’s not “nothing.” Carl isn’t about to let it drop now, not without some mention of his father’s behavior. And without even _meaning to_ , like it’s some nervous habit by now, like there could be some answer in the boy’s skin, Rick’s eyes make another trip down the boy’s midriff and find -

 

               “Just..thinkin’ about your bullet wound,” Rick finished quietly, gaze fixed to the barely visible scar tissue in the minimal candle light.

 

               Carl looked momentarily taken aback, though didn’t say anything. Realizing he’d need to explain, and absolutely hating himself for it, Rick continued.

 

               “I,” he began, letting out a breath and running a hand through disheveled hair, “I’m just thinkin’ on the times I almost lost you.” And though this began as a little white lie, it certainly wasn’t now. Rick can’t even hope to count the times his son’s life was threatened. From the Walkers as a constant danger to avoid, to the looming threat of starvation, of _exposure_ , to the very real risk of other humans, the older man found it hard to believe that only two years had passed. Two long, painful years of grueling conditions and bitter loss. He’d come so close to losing everything.

 

               But he never lost Carl.

 

               Rick watched as the boy’s expression softened, something close to but not-quite-a-smile lifted the corners of his lips, and he closed the small distance between them until he sat beside his father on the couch. Carl was close enough to touch, close enough that just a slight movement, a minute tilt of the head and he could imagine taking in the sweet scent of his child, nothing but sweat and heady pheromones and his own flesh and blood. He let himself become too distracted again, that when the young teen spoke, he was caught off guard.

 

               “What about all the times I nearly lost you?”

 

               Locking eyes with his son, Rick shifted so he faced the boy. The question struck a chord within him, as is the case with most things Carl says. He waited a beat, not knowing quite what to say. What about all the times Rick had foolishly charged into danger? Just as he could say he’d come far too close to his son’s death, Carl, he knew, could reciprocate the feeling tenfold. Rick played the part of the absent father for too long, even before everything fell. Rick knew he was the boy’s whole world, before. He knew that those few short months for a boy to lose both him _and_ the world as he knew it were devastating; that experience, he was sure, was one that helped to shape him. It was the first of many tragedies Carl was forced to become desensitized to.

 

               “Seems we’re about even then,” Rick settled on, needing to keep the words light, if not the subject matter. He offered a rueful smile when the boy chuckled softly, and habitually draped one arm over the back rest of the couch. He immediately regretted his actions as Carl subconsciously adjusted to this, shifting closer to his father so they’re thighs brushed. He swallowed, feeling his heart rate increase slightly, willing himself to calm down. Just the mention of his son’s mortality was cause for an increase in energy, something his body was now trying to release in other ways.

 

               “Yeah, especially with our matching scars, right?” Carl joked quietly, a smile, though a little sad, shining through and melting Rick’s composure a little more. The teen reached a hand up – narrow with long fingers befitting that of a pianist, an artist, delicate little wrists he could wrap his _own_ fingers around and hold down – and placed it directly over the scar on his abdomen. It didn’t go unnoticed to the man that, despite his shirt shielding it from view, Carl still knew the exact place he was shot. The thought made the action seem oddly intimate.

 

               Turning his head to catch his son’s gaze, Rick found himself lost between those blue eyes staring back at him, _his eyes_ , and slowly, slowly, raised his own hand to cover the one resting on his lower torso. He didn’t lace their fingers together, much as he longed to, but offered a hand to hold for a moment or two, before gently pulling both hands away from his body. He meant to release his child’s hand as well, had intended to, but his muscles refused to release their hold. His thumb gently caressed the back of the teen’s hand, eyes lowering to stare where they joined, so different in size and shape and yet so complementary to each other. He’ll allow himself this one small reprieve, this one act of indulgence.

 

               There were so many things unsaid between them. Rick agonized over his conflicting desires, wanting to shield Carl from all things depraved and wrong, and the sick fantasies parading through his mind every day. Fantasies of his son, his perfect, _beautiful_ baby boy beneath him, reduced to inarticulate cries of delight. Rick ached at the thought of being his son’s sole cause of pleasure, yearning for a day when he could show the boy how to receive the most intimate attention.

 

               He wanted to be the only one to ever see Carl in the throes of passion, wanted to be the only one to ever taste him, mark him, _take_ him.

 

               But for these very reasons, Rick hasn’t let himself breach that trust. His intentions, his feelings, they would only serve to push the boy further away, create a rift. Time passes differently these days, though that doesn’t mean it heals all wounds immediately. Who’s to say Carl would ever trust someone, a man, again? Just being his father doesn’t mean he isn’t immune from the occasional flinches, the quick flash of fear in the adolescent’s eyes before recognizing his father wouldn’t hurt him, _couldn’t_ touch him like that. Not for the first time, and definitely not for the last, Rick curses the men who threatened his child’s innocence.

 

               Slowly, as if afraid Rick might move away, Carl leaned forward to rest his head on the man’s chest. Inhaling through his nose in carefully masked surprise, Rick hesitated only a moment before lowering his arm from the back of the couch to around his son. As if they had a mind of their own, his fingers traced slow, gentle patterns along the boy’s back, dipping lower and lower until his fingers rested on Carl’s hips, rubbing soothingly.

 

               “You comfortable?” The older man asked, voice like gravel. Carl gave an affirmative hum, nestling closer to his father. Rick could feel Carl’s breath on his collarbone and was sure the boy must feel his thumping heart in return. If he did, his son didn’t say anything.

 

               Feeling very much on the verge of _something_ , Rick knew he needed to break the very odd spell they seemed to have fallen under. He felt his resolve breaking, but kept it intact with the only thoughts of his son’s wellbeing, acknowledging a young boy seeking affection from his father, _the man who made him._ Unfortunately, this was an argument that could also serve to inflame his desires if he wasn’t careful.

 

               “C’mon,” he muttered, running his hand over Carl’s back again, “You gotta get some sleep.”

 

               Slipping his arms out from around his son (something that evoked a powerful sense of loss he was unprepared for,) Rick made to stand. With the few extra blankets in the room, Rick’s makeshift bed right below the couch might be a little more forgiving, though it’s not as if he’ll really sleep anyway. And while he knows maybe he’d benefit from the couch more, that Carl offers each and every time to switch, just once, Rick point blank refuses. So when the boy uttered a soft “Dad” followed by a hesitant silence, Rick knew what he was going to say.

 

               “Carl,” he cut him off, “You take the couch. That’s the way it’s done. It’s not negotiable.”

 

               “Do you think I don’t see the kind of pain you’re in?” Any semblance of sleep was gone from Carl’s face. His eyes were bright, shining with a sort of determination. “How do you think it makes me feel, knowing you get hurt for me?”

 

               Rick was taken aback for a moment, unsure of how to respond. He really needed to learn to stop being surprised by Carl’s surprising intuition.

 

               “Carl,” he said again, though with a much more amenable tone, “it’s nothin’ I can’t handle. Besides,” he levelled a somewhat teasing look towards his son, “You’re just gonna complain come morning. Nothin’ you gotta worry about, alright?”

 

               The boy shook his head, making it clear he wasn’t about to give in. With the not-so-distant attack on the prison just behind them, coupled with a number of other conflicts, he’d been more complacent with Rick’s calls. So much so that he honestly forgot what it felt like when Carl dug his heels in.

 

               Without a word, the older man sank to the nest of assorted blankets and pillows, making the decision without Carl. Before he even pulled a blanket over himself however, the adolescent quickly followed suit, settling in beside him.

 

               “Now no one gets the couch,” he said simply, face open and expectant of his father’s retort, positively cheeky.

 

               “Carl,” Rick said with some force, though only let out another sigh. Clearly there was some reason, some driving force for Carl to want to be so close to him. Rick would be a fool to create distance where there doesn’t need to be any.

 

               It was easier to tell himself these obvious white lies than it was to admit he craved having his son so close, that it meant so much more for the boy to trust him so implicitly to sleep right beside him, oblivious of the dark thoughts plaguing his father’s mind.

 

               Raising a hand, Rick ran his fingers through his son’s silky hair, brushing it away from his face. He let out another breath, this one lighter, less tension to release.

 

               “I’ll be right here when you wake up,” he said, gently easing Carl onto his back and drawing the blanket up over his body.

 

               The boy’s eyes watched him intently, reading him.

 

               “You should lay down too,” he said, one hand escaping the covers to grasp his father’s hand, “I know you don’t wanna sleep, but you should. I can stay up for a change.” If Rick wasn’t trying to be firm, he’s sure he’d have given in from the imploring look his son gave him.

 

               “I’m not that tired just yet,” he muttered quietly, free hand moving to stroke Carl’s hair again. Neither said anything for a few minutes, both enjoying the brief moment of peace.

 

               “Can you at least lay down with me?”

 

               The request was so innocent, spoken in such a small voice, Rick would have thought he misheard if he hadn’t watched the boy’s lips shape the question.

 

               “Yeah,” the man nodded, “yeah, I can do that.”

 

               And against all his better judgment, Rick settled beside his son, intending to maintain some distance. Unfortunately for him, Carl had something else in mind. Almost immediately, the boy shifted on his side and wriggled closer, similar to that of their position on the couch. Small, fragile hands gripped the front of Rick’s shirt, slender thighs all but entwining with his own longer legs. Almost against his will, his arms surrounded the teen, pulling him closer as an indirect result. He couldn’t bring himself to honestly mind.

 

               “This okay?” he asked, hands running the expanse of his son’s back. The shirt he wore was still unbuttoned, easily riding up whenever his large hands caressed in an upward motion.

 

               “Mmhm,” was the only reply he got, noting all the signals of Carl’s quick departure into sleep. He could breathe easier now, knowing the boy was falling unconscious, could let his mind think without fear of saying the wrong thing.

 

               “Your hands feel good,” came a soft mumble, clearly half asleep, clearly with no idea how it might sound. Rick forced a slight chuckle, _needing_ to make light of the comment.

 

               “You just go to sleep, sweetheart,” he whispered, instinctively pulling his son closer. It was going to be a long night.


	3. Release

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm the lamest person the face of the planet. Shit went down irl (not like super serious terrible stuff, but stuff just the same) aaaand of course my muse sucks more often then not. I just figured I'd pop back in for a sec with this little gift. Not sure how present or absent i'll be, but with the new season having a fuckton of Grimecest moments, I'll probably be writing a little more often. Now to get back in touch with everyone and beg for forgiveness ._. This wasn't beta'd either, mostly cuz I wanted to get it up as quickly as possible, so here's hoping the wonderful lady who proofreads my garbage is okay with this. <3
> 
> ALSO there is smut ahead, as well as angst. It's Grimecest (of course) but might not be quite what you're expecting. I'd also like to give credit to someone on tumblr who sails this ship as well. I'm awful and can't remember their name or if they were under anon, but they presented the lovely idea of Carl waking up to Rick's dick pressing against his bum, and it stuck with me. Hope you enjoy! ;3

  Consciousness tugged at Carl's mind. He was beyond comfortable, wrapped snugly in several blankets and the arms of his father. He blinked, squinting as a beam of early sunlight stung at his eyes. The boy withdrew further into the warm mass behind him, seeking relief from the harsh rays. If his father wasn't awake yet, he didn't need to be.

 

  A drawn out sigh rustled the hair at the nape of Carl's neck, sending an involuntary shiver down his spine. He was no longer accustomed to this degree of proximity. Not that he could bring himself to object, quite the opposite. Carl's breath did catch however, when he felt himself tugged backwards by the muscled arm coiled around his waist, bringing his body flush with Rick's. His heart skipped a beat and the world came to momentary standstill. 

 

  There was no mistaking the hardness, the _pressure_  prodding at the cleft of his rear. A jolt of arousal pulsed through the teen, his own member responding almost _immediately_. He let out a shaky exhale, breathing out a hesitant "Dad?" but received no response. 

 

  He'd dreamt of this for months. The security his father offered, the chance to fully belong and be _everything_ to the man who encompassed his entire world. But the enormity of the shame that comes with such a realization had never been easy to deal with. While the boy had pursued Rick last night, had _insisted_ they share a bed, he'd _never_ expected this.

 

  It wasn't that he was blind to the intensity behind his father's eyes. Each glance, every deliberate sweep up his body from the gaze he himself inherited, couldn't be excused as paternal. It was only made more obvious by the way Rick would guiltily look away, change the subject. It was because of this that he didn't want to make his father unnecessarily uncomfortable; he was no stranger to shame. Still, last night he had felt in need, an undefinable sort of longing to be physically close. Clearly that had been the catalyst needed to open the floodgates.

 

  Carl shifted slightly, causing the older man's hand to travel to his hip. Rick, even deep in sleep, possessed a commanding air. His thick, disciplined fingers gripped the boy tightly, holding him in place. Carl positively _whimpered_. He bit his lip quickly to prevent anymore mutinous sounds, but his confidence was wavering. 

 

 The slow, undulating press of his father's groin against his ass was testing his resolve. Carl's dick copiously leaked precum, staining the front of his boxers. He _ached_ to touch himself, but wouldn't dare, not when it felt so much like taking advantage. In his mind, he couldn't help but remind himself of the remorse the man must feel in his waking hours. How drastically conflicting goals and desires wage war every day in his mind. He could fully empathize, his own psyche wreaking havoc on his peace of mind between what was healthy what was not. Despite this, Carl would give explicit permission to his father, given the chance, to do _whatever_  the older man wanted.

 

  Feather light sensations traveled down his jawline, and Carl's nerve endings reported their findings while synapses fired off in overwhelming translation. Half-desperate kisses and just a hint of teeth caressed his flesh. They were sloppy, half conscious attempts at reaching out and seeking to comfort. The teen's length throbbed in response, and he wanted so  _badly_ to turn just so and meet the mouth worshiping his neck.

 

  The boy found himself wishing that Rick wasn't wearing jeans, that he could feel more than a vague outline of the iron bar that was his father's cock. The rocking motions came quicker now, Carl doing what he could to provide an outlet for the man simultaneously soothing and igniting his mind and body. He craved being bare with Rick, wanted to taste his father's skin and sweat and _cum_  -

 

  A grunt, as if in pain. The barely audible whisper of " _Carl_ ". Several sharp thrusts followed where the teen could swear he felt the head of the older man's dick, nestled tight in the crevice of his ass, and nudged his entrance greedily. The rigid fingers grasping his hip dug in, surely leaving bruises, while Rick's unconscious body chased after it's climax.

 

  A warm patch of moisture began to seep through the back of Carl's underwear. The teen shivered from the evidence of his father's release, and couldn't help rubbing his hips in little circles against the slowly softening cock, drawing forth as much pleasure from the man as possible. He felt dizzy with arousal, not having cum yet, but couldn't find it in himself to care much. He felt content simply providing meager comfort for the older man.

 

  Rick's breathing slowed down until deep sleep claimed him once again, though not before encircling Carl's waist once more. The boy felt immensely satisfied despite the distracting twinge in his groin. Still, the ever-lingering guilt began to cast a shadow over his mind.

 

  Carl hadn't been able to give up this opportunity. He couldn't refuse Rick this moment of reprieve, but more importantly he couldn't refuse _himself._  Like a bad dream impossible to shake, Carl couldn't help but tell himself that he had just taken very _real_  advantage of his father. He shivered, this time a terrible mixture of fear and residual arousal, blended carefully with the looming repercussion of trying to obtain the forbidden. The teen knew it wasn't the same, knew that he hadn't instigated anything, but he also didn't put a stop to it.

 

  Rick was an unwilling participant. While it was true he certainly started it, the unconscious mind doesn't dictate what the man would actually do, and the boy held no false hopes that the man would have ever acted on his feelings. Carl understood very well what it was to be assaulted, and he  _knew,_ logically, that he hadn't forced his father to do anything. His  _inaction,_ however, made him feel somehow twice as guilty.

 

  Suddenly feeling very restless,  _needing_ physical distance from the object of his very jarring dilemma, Carl carefully but quickly extracted himself from his father's arms. Out of pure habit, he grabbed his firearm and all but fled down the hall to the nearest bathroom. Closing the door as soundlessly as possible, Carl leant his weight against the wall, set his gun down, and delved a hand into his boxers.

 

  The sharp hiss through his teeth sounded dangerously loud, and he hurriedly bit his lip once more. The boy's fingers felt small, _minuscule_ compared to his father's. He had to grasp himself firmly, applying pressure to various spots to try and evoke the same secure, firm grip he had so often imagined from Rick's hand. Precum continued to drip down his shaft, making his fingers slip and struggle for purchase.

 

  The sensation of the older man's cock pushing insistently at his hole, even through several layers, had been indescribable. There wasn't anything Carl wouldn't _give_  to have his father take him, enter him through his most intimate place and take full control of his body and mind, just as he had the boy's life. He wanted the hard length that had brought him into this world to spill itself deep, _deep_ inside of him, giving him pleasure where it had originally given him life.

 

 Carl couldn't bring himself to feel ashamed of the direction his thoughts had taken. He couldn't think about anything but his father: those eyes longingly tracing his diminutive figure, a calloused palm stroking his neck, thickly corded arms holding him close, his father's cum filling him up, his father's _cock_  burrowing as far as possible to ensure not a _single_ drop goes to waste.

 

  The orgasm that wracked Carl's body caused his knees to buckle. His hand continued to wring every last bit of pleasure from his small, swollen shaft, his breath coming out in ragged gasps and cut off whines. He hid his face in his forearm and felt the sleeve quickly dampening from his breath.

 

  Blinking slowly, he realized belatedly how watery his vision had gotten. He wiped furiously at his eyes, gradually coming down from the intensitsy of his release. The predictable overcast of self-deprecation and shame hadn't quite resurfaced yet; he allowed himself a few moments to collect himself.

 

 The boy let out one more shaky sigh. He snatched up a semi-clean wash rag, and worked quickly to remove any indication of his actions. Glancing at the mirror, Carl smoothed his hair down in an attempt look halfway presentable. He stared at his own reflection for a fraction of a second longer before turning away. There was no use putting off facing his father any longer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll hopefully y be more active over on tumblr. Please follow me at humdrum-star.tumblr.com and as always, lemme know what you think in the comments~


End file.
